It’s hard to know love when you live in your own head.
When your mind is endless and boundless and you’ve built up an entire land of fantasy through countless books and movies and songs on repeat and strolls through museums full of the most beautiful art.
Everything is perfect when it’s yours. When you’ve taught yourself that your head is full of fairytales that could be really real.
I romanticize men I barely even know. I make them into my version of a prince. I give them pieces of my heart to keep.
Because they played me my favorite songs on piano and made my coffee just the way I like in the morning and let me have the last crab rangoon.
Because they told me how sweet and soft my heart is and kissed me in the rain and shared blueberry pancakes.
Because they built me a bookshelf and let me name the dog and toured me through wine country.
Because they sent me dozens of roses and wrote me love letters.
(Because I thought this time, it’s not in my head. It’s real. It’s mine. I’ve finally found him.)
